


The Marks

by Histoire



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Eventual Happy Ending, I'll tag more things once I figure this out, I'm so sorry, Light Angst, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, but really it's only Lance that angsts, idk how to tag my work, send help, so langst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:36:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Histoire/pseuds/Histoire
Summary: Lance is surrounded by people with Soul Marks, and with bated breath, he waited for his to appear on his body when his thirteenth birthday rolled around. There's just one problem; it doesn't seem to exist.Or:Soul Mark Au, where you have a matching Soul Mark with your Soulmate, unless you're Lance, in which case you appear to have no Soul Mark. This is a fic on how Lance deals with this realisation.





	1. Chapter 1

The first one Lance had seen was his mother’s, a silver butterfly about an inch tall and wide that danced across her left cheek, an eye-catching piece of facial décor; her Soul Mark. He remembers that it felt like nothing when he had plucked up the courage to reach out to cross the distance and touch it, and yet it had made all the difference. It was this mark that caught the attention of Lance’s father, who had the same mark, only slightly bigger, tattooed on his right forearm. It was the marks that had fated two strangers to be together, foretold their belonging to each other.

Lance wasn’t an only child, and with three older siblings before him, he had already had his fair share of marks, and with his experience came expectations. It would be an understatement to say that Lance was obsessed with Soul Marks, he practically lived for the moment that his would arrive. He had already seen it, a black lion the size of a fist, materialising on his chest. He could sometimes feel it too, the ticklish, tingly sensation of pen on skin as the mark etched itself onto his body, just for a moment, before it was a gone and the mark took up permanent residence on his chest.

And then the day came, Lance’s thirteenth birthday (well, it really wasn’t the day, it was more of a day that the Soul Mark could appear, as a matter of fact, it was the earliest day that a Soul Mark would appear, the ages usually ranged from thirteen to fifteen). An infectious excitement had plagued the teenager before spreading to his family, causing them all to be overly excited, Lance because of his growing impatience at his Soul Mark that hadn’t appeared, and the family, because it was someone’s birthday. Most would agree that it was warranted, for the McClains always seemed to find any occasion regarding family important, a category of events which birthdays fell comfortably under, making Lance’s birthday most worthy of celebrating; the possible appearance of a Soul Mark was just an added bonus. And so it was with great pleasure that Mrs McClain invited as many people as she could.

Thinking back on it now, perhaps this was why Lance had felt so much pressure that day. Almost everyone would be there, from his grandmother to his father’s third cousin removed (who awkwardly enough they had only invited as an obligation, not expecting him to accept, but he did anyway), so how could Lance turn up without a cool new Soul Mark to show off? And with the intention of obtaining an at least decent Soul Mark to parade around with at his birthday, Lance, in a faded blue shirt and his favourite pair of lucky yellow boxers, found himself staring back at his reflection in his eldest sister’s full body length mirror, the deafening silence roaring in his ears as he watched the minutes slowly go by, dripping down as quickly as honey, nervous dark blue eyes flickering with giddy excitement between his watch and his own face in the mirror. When the watch showed twelve in the morning, the newly appointed teenager looked at himself in the mirror, scanning his body for any sign of the black lion that he had dreamt of for so many years.

But it wasn’t there.

It wasn’t anywhere.

So Lance stared longer, turning around and around in circles, like a dog chasing its own tail, to see if it had appeared elsewhere, perhaps on his back, maybe on his neck. The mark remained hidden. At the fifteen minute mark, his impatience had caused him pull off his shirt, tossing it to the floor and forgoing it to focus his excited, unsteady gaze on his chest, where he willed his Soul Mark to take shape. And for a moment he saw it, yes! It was the start of a thick black line, the ticklish, tingly sensation of pen on skin trailing over his chest. But then the moment was gone, replaced by the chime of the grandfather clock in the outside hallway, its pendulum slamming him back into reality of one a.m. in the room of Isabel McClain, the third room on the left of the second floor of the McClain house.

There was no lion, no mark. Nothing to see, no sensation to feel.

Lance knows the end of this story, the lies he created to disguise his lack of a Soul Mark and his grief. He knows the feeling of hope, as the next year rolls by. He knows the feeling of dying hope, as the approaching second year loomed over him, the Soul Mark still unfound.

However, Lance’s hope is not dead, just dying, as previously mentioned.

He wakes up today to see the ceiling of his bedroom, the off-white paint chipping at certain corners, moulding in others. He propels himself out of bed at the berating of his mother, who deviously leaves the door open as an added incentive for Lance to get up. The teenager drags himself to the toilet and steps into the shower, grimacing at the embrace of cold water, the hot having been used by his much earlier-rising siblings. He drags various scented products over his body, some he owned, others he stole from his unsuspecting brothers and sisters (mostly sisters), and as easily as washing soap off, Lance’s morning scowl is wiped away by the application of a Vanilla scented in shower lotion. Stepping out of the shower, he wipes his feet and reaches out to pick up a red toothbrush, coaxing the last of a blueberry scented toothpaste onto it. His eyes turn upwards and he sees them reflected in the mirror, an unchanged blue that he recalls from the childhood midnight event. They sweep over his body, lingering slightly on his chest, before they hurriedly snap back up to his face, a familiar mixture of desperation, sadness, and frustration painted on it, an expression he wore almost every morning. Lance stuffs the toothbrush into his mouth a little too violently, chasing the expression and the memory out of his mind.

Twenty minutes later, he’s in the kitchen, a bowl of half-finished cereal in front of him, joking about something stupid his brother absent-mindedly said, all prior thoughts of Soul Marks temporarily gone from his brain. As Lance guides the last spoonful of cereal to his mouth, he gets up and takes his bowl and spoon to the sink, cutting off his mother, also on her way to the sink, running out of the kitchen before she can lecture him for leaving her to do the dishes. He swings his backpack onto his shoulders and opens the front door, greeting the morning breeze with a laugh, soaking in the cooler morning sunlight. Such a beautiful day!

What could go wrong?

Oh, what indeed could go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah hello! That was the first chapter of the first fanfic I've ever posted (it's also only sort of a prologue, and I'm very sorry that it's so short), so yeah I'm quite nervous about its reception. Unfortunately it's not proofread (oh boy what a great start), so I'd appreciate it if any mistakes made were pointed out to me. I'd really love to read any reviews, so do leave them below, thank you!
> 
> Ah, I also marked this as a Klance fic, and I'm very sorry to say this but the Keith will only appear much later. Very much later.


	2. Chapter 2

Hunk Garrett had been Lance’s friend since kindergarten, which, considering how Hunk’s mellow nature had made him friends with practically everyone in the school, wasn’t really much of a surprise. Heck, Hunk probably still kept in touch with his entire class from that time. However, Lance liked to think that he was special; after all, he was Hunk’s best friend. And this fact was probably why Hunk could usually be found outside Lance’s house every morning, forehead glistening with sweat as he made sad, desperate attempts to cool himself down by fanning his face with his hands, for it was his obligation as a best friend to wait for Lance so that the two almost inseparable pair could walk to school together.

Usually, Hunk would wait between ten to twenty minutes outside the gate of the McClain house, dying to get out of the heat, yet too embarrassed to ask if he could wait in the shade of the house. And so it was with a red face that the youth would usually greet Lance when he finally appeared from the comfort of his home, a clear attempt at being cheery detectable in his voice, an even clearer ‘thank god’ written on his face. Sometimes his face wasn’t red; sometimes it was wet, for poor Hunk had to wait for his friend outside in the rain, still feeling that he shouldn’t intrude on the family’s breakfast. In his nine years of friendship with Hunk, Lance could never figure out where the extraordinarily patient teenager drew his unyielding tolerance from.

Today seemed as if it were the same, usual day, but as Lance ran over the excuse he had made up to pacify Hunk over why he was late, something told him that everything was not as it should be. Nothing was out of place, no strand of hair untucked, no stray chunk of cereal stuck in between his teeth, yet something was out of place. Lance quickly discovered what it was. As if he were an actress in a Korean drama, Hunk made a dramatic turn when he heard the front door open, and Lance swore that his hair did a nice swish, the kind you only saw in l’oreal shampoo commercials. What shocked Lance the most was the blindingly bright smile Hunk gave him with his greeting, which probably had enough force to knock Lance back into his seat at the breakfast table. And with that smile, Lance already knew

Today was not the same, usual day that he was expecting to have.

Lance felt his face contort into a myriad of different emotions as he and his companion set out from the house: bewilderment, confusion, concern, before he tried his best to force it into a smile, not really sure of what he should do in the face of this Hunk, this unfamiliar, foreign , Hunk. Thank god he didn’t have to say anything yet; the teenager had already begun to ramble about his morning, something he usually didn’t do until Lance had offered his mediocre excuse for being late. Lance accepted it gratefully anyway, mind cluttered with questions, all of which he wanted answers to. After five minutes of hearing Hunk drone on, Lance’s curiosity had built up past the breaking point, and before he knew it, one of his questions had risen from his throat and had slipped out between his lips.

“So, what’s up?”

There was a pregnant pause as Hunk fumbled with his words; Lance was usually too preoccupied to cut him off.

“What?”

He settled on a single word, unable to conjure a better response. Lance picks another question from his almost limitless options and presents it.

“What’s wrong with you today?”

It’s a bluntly phrased inquiry, and upon seeing Hunk’s confused, slightly taken aback expression, Lance cringes internally and wishes he could take take his words back. But before he can, Hunk responds.

“Nothing is!”

He chuckles, unoffended at Lance’s previous comment. His smile curls at the end of his lips, as if he had something else to laugh about, something he was happy about, something he wouldn’t tell Lance . There was a feeling in Lance’s chest, a foreboding sensation that encouraged him against pressing Hunk for an answer, and he couldn’t understand it. Why was he so apprehensive? After all, Hunk wouldn’t be angry, he was almost never angry, so why was he hesitating? It wouldn’t hurt to ask another question, would it?

Would it?

From the corner of his eye, Lance could see that Hunk had suddenly paused, a strangely wide, excited grin stretching from one ear to the other. And the feeling was amplified, the suspicion, the trepidation , boiling over and threatening to spill out onto his face. Then, Hunk opened his mouth.

“Actually, I do have something to tell you.”

Lance continued to walk, striding past Hunk, nodding his head in an expression for him to go on, his palpitating heart rising from his chest to his mouth as he made futile attempts to swallow it back down.

“I have one now.”

“You have one what?”

Lance inquired, voice calm, though he felt a crushing weight on his shoulders. He didn’t need to ask what Hunk had gotten; he already knew what it was.

“A Soul Mark.”

A Soul Mark.

And Lance truly felt everything fall out of place.

Perhaps he should have prepared for this, this situation, this feeling of everything crumbling around him; the collapse of this perfect world Lance had envisioned in his mind, built with his own wild imagination. And had tried to, but the thought of it was just...ridiculous! How could he, Lance, Lance McClain, not have a Soul Mark, let alone a Soul Mark better than any other in the world? Twelve-year-old Lance would never fathom this, could never fathom this , but for fourteen-year-old Lance, this wasn't just an impossible scenario, it was an entirely possible reality . And now that he couldn't run away from this situation he was thrust into, how could he face it?

By doing the thing he had always done since the beginning of this neverending nightmare; his Noh programme of lying and deception.

“Oh wow, that’s amazing!”

Lance laughs, turning around and shooting Hunk finger guns. There's a mischievous grin on his face accompanied by a sly wink.

“I wonder who the lucky lady is.”

His excitement is replaced by a wistful smile, as he reaches over to pat Hunk on the back, a small congratulatory sign. It works. Hunk’s face lights up like a christmas tree, his wide grin broadening past humanly possible. The words he says are lost to Lance, he only sees Hunk’s face, Hunk’s smile, Hunk’s eyes. Oh how it shines with joy, these watery brown eyes, tears already spilling over their boundaries! And his vision blurs too, globs of salt water dripping over and onto his face. Such contrast, their vast range of emotions, for while Hunk cried because of his overwhelming happiness, Lance cried because of his crippling misery, his burning jealousy. He didn't want to be like this, he wanted to be as content as his friend, wanted to be able to celebrate this occasion with as much gusto, but how could he? How could he enjoy this when he felt as though he had just been stabbed?

It was difficult to place what Lance felt. Certainly it was bitterness, melding with a bit of happiness, for their years of friendship could never allow him to be so engorged over a Mark that he wouldn't feel at least a sliver of elation for Hunk, even if it wasn’t enough. There was envy, such obvious envy, that marred his face and clearly presented itself in the way Lance’s hands shook as he balled them into fists, in the way he gritted his teeth as he turned his face away to hide this emotion, and there was guilt, nagging at him to at least try to act glad, to try to be glad, because this was his friend, his best friend, who honestly deserved everything good in the world for dealing with Lance. But deep in his heart there was something else that he couldn't place, this crack in his weak emotional state, a small black line that seemed to eat away at his mind, slowly growing bigger and bigger no matter how hard Lance tried to cover it up, sucking in all of his positivity and replacing it with a strange darkness. At that time, Lance thought that he couldn’t name it, pretended that he couldn’t name it, but it had been there all along, already present since the midnight incident on his thirteenth birthday, though it had been miniscule then. This emotion was fear.

Fear that he couldn’t live up to his expectations.

Fear that he couldn’t become the great person he wanted to be.

Fear that he would be less than everybody else, for he didn’t have a mark like them.

It fragmented Lance’s already fragile hope, sending cracks, both tiny enough to not be seen, and large enough to swallow him, through its center. He could almost see it coming towards him, waiting to devour him, and there was nothing Lance could do to stop this. He ran instead, ran away from this emotion, ran away from the doubt that it planted in his mind, the doubt that perhaps he wasn’t meant to have a mark, for how could Lance accept that, accept that he was no more special than anyone else? How could he not be special? Usually Lance could chase these thought away, push them to the back of his mind to ponder for later.

But today was not the usual day.

Today, Lance’s fears had caught up to him. They taunted him, shoving their questions in his face and calling for him to answer them. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide. Today was the day that Lance would decide if he would cling on to his decaying hope, or accept the high possibility that perhaps he wasn’t in fact meant to have an awesome Soul Mark, that perhaps he was meant to special in another way, and eventually realise that despite that, everything would still be okay. The former could chain Lance to his fears for his entire life, the latter could eventually set him free from his misery right there and then. And without batting an eyelid, Lance already knew which option to choose.

With a quick swipe across his face, Lance wiped away his tears and put on a practiced smile. He turned around and saw Hunk, still proclaiming his joy over the new Soul Mark, a Soul Mark Lance caught a glimpse of; a beautiful blue crystal the size of a fist, sitting lazily under on Hunk’s upper arm, partially obscured by the yellow material of Hunk’s shirt. It was magnificent and fit its owner like a glove, almost as if it were an extension of the teenager, an organ that belonged on his skin. It was truly a remarkable piece of art, and Lance resented how he didn’t have one, but he was okay, because he knew with all his heart that he could still keep his hope alive.

Between the two options, what else would he choose but to believe in his childhood dream, for how could Lance accept that he wasn’t special?

And it was like this that Lance spent the rest of his days as a fourteen-year-old, always convincing himself he was special, always pretending that his doubts were wrong. As hours stretched into days and days stretched into months, the hope that Lance had clung so desperately to had crumbled into a ball so small that a toddler could hold it in one hand, yet Lance held onto it anyway, for it was his only way of navigating through the negative emotions that could eat him at any moment. His hope was a small light that prevented the darkness from consuming him, it was a hand that held his as Lance dangled off the edge of a cliff, his thoughts and emotions sitting at the bottom, beckoning him to let go. Lance lived like this until his birthday, his fifteenth birthday, the last day for him to get his Soul Mark.

On the night before the day of his fifteenth birthday, Lance snuck into the room of Isabel McClain, third room to the left side on the second floor of the McClain house. Peering into the full body length mirror, he sees himself in the dim reflection, wearing a faded blue t-shirt and his lucky yellow boxers. It’s so familiar, this scene, this atmosphere, as if he had been here before. It’s a humid night, and Lance feels his left ear start to itch, the heat causing his skin to become sticky as he stands in front of the mirror and calmly waits for the fated hour. Then the clock strikes twelve, and Lance is a frantic mess. He’s looking for it, his lost Soul Mark that had never come to him. Perhaps it was on his back, maybe on his neck. After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching, Lance clumsily pulls his shirt of his head, his eyes focusing on his chest, willing the black lion he had seen in so many dreams before to come to him. As he shut his eyes and opened them again, he saw it in the mirror, a black line that started over his chest, right where his heart was, he felt it, the sensation of pen on skin that he had so hungrily desired for over a decade. Lance watched it as it slowly etched itself onto his dark skin, a relieved grin spreading over his face, growing bigger as the Mark grew bigger. He was right after all, he was meant to be special.

Then Lance heard something chime from the distance. It was the call of the grandfather clock in the hallway, signalling one a.m.. And Lance looked away for a moment, distracted, before turning back to the mirror. There he watched in silent horror as the mark that he had seen form on him not five minutes ago was disappearing. The black lines dripping down and running over his skin, from his chest, to his stomach, and then onto his legs and feet, where it slipped into the dark shadows of the night, fusing with them, never to be seen again. This seemed so scarily familiar, this incident, this occurrence, and with a growing dread, Lance realised why.

It was the same. The was this situation played out was almost exactly the same as the incident from the night before his thirteenth birthday. And Lance realised something else.

He was wrong after all.

He wasn't meant to be special.

The diminished hope that Lance had chosen to hold onto then crumbled, it’s soft faded light wavering and flickering before it completely died out. And the darkness it kept at bay for so long quickly swallowed Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note on the 'Noh Programme' in paragraph 25:  
> Noh is a form of theater that originates from Japan. It's derived from the word 'nō', which means talent or skill. Because I am a sucker for metaphors and literary devices, I used 'Noh Programme' here to show how Lance's practice of smiling and pretending that he is okay is something that he is extremely good at, to the point that he is talented.
> 
> EDIT(July 9th): Ah, I have a tumblr now, my username is hystoire (because histoire was taken). It doesn't have anything in it yet, but feel free to stop by to talk to me, or send in prompts you'd like to see me write!


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